


From Hollow Into Light

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crack, Horror, Humor, M/M, R/NC-17 - Brown Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-07
Updated: 2008-04-07
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: This wasn't supposed to happen.  He was happy by himself.





	From Hollow Into Light

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

  
Author's notes: For Bell, who I have adored unreasoningly for _eight years_ now (as she pointed out the other day :O). She's never had any LoM fic out of me, though, so I thought she should.  >3 For everyone else: how many times can I tell you I'm sorry? Chances are, you don't believe me anyway. Title borrowed from Ms. Shirley Manson. Flash-beta-read by the insanely brilliant Andy. :D  


* * *

This wasn't supposed to happen.

 

 

It came back in flashes, whenever he least wanted it to. Sticky, tangled, sweat-slicked limbs. Fingernails tearing up his back, clawing so deeply they left great, gaping slashes that stung like nothing else in the shower the next morning. How he'd banged his head twice; first into the wall, then into the sad wire frame that great poof had called a headboard.

 

 

_At least I got my own back,_ Ray winced as he remembered. Those carpet burns between Sam's thighs as he'd ridden Ray's 'tache like he thought Ray was a bucking bronco. Well, except for the part where Sam was the one doing all the bucking. God _was_ in the detail, after all.

 

 

He'd known the whole time it was happening that it would never happen again; would, in fact, never have happened in the first place were it not for the Guv. And how he was such an unrepentant cocktease.

 

 

He'd seen the way Sam worried his lip as he sent smouldering, wounded stares at the Guv as he aimed his darts. Seen the way the Guv pointedly ignored them, even though Ray himself could feel the heat of Sam's gaze from where he was sitting. Didn't matter that he wasn't even in the line of fire, it was so hot. 

 

 

He'd ignored the fact he shouldn't even care, really. It wasn't as though _he_ wanted Sam. If he was gonna do the dirty with someone that frail and birdlike, he wanted _an actual bird_. Not some airy-fairy poofter like Sam-bloody-Tyler.

 

 

Oh, not like he had _proof_.

 

 

And that, Ray thought, was when things had started to go completely pear-shaped. He held his head painfully and moaned as he remembered.

 

 

The events that had followed were these: as he'd sat and drank and watched Sam smoulder angrily and get progressively more pissed as the night wore on, he, too, drank in massive quantities. But he wasn't pissed. Oh no, not Ray Carling. He was far too much a man's man to not be able to hold his booze. No, the booze helped him become a philosopher. A theorist. A downright _scholar_. Ray nodded sagely to no-one in particular as he thought this last thought and smiled to himself.

 

 

_I've got no proof he's a poof,_ he'd thought. And then congratulated himself and added "poet" to the list of things he was now becoming. _What's he always going on about again? Empirical data? Variables? Tangible evidence???_ Ray took another steadying swig from his eleventeenth pint of bitter.

 

 

Wiping the foam off his moustache determinedly, Ray had made his move.

******

Of course, he'd been right. Things, as ever, remained normal down in CID. Nothing changed after that night at all, and of course it never happened again. He wasn't any more inclined to take his DI seriously, and his DI wasn't inclined to think him any less a neanderthal, either.

 

 

To his way of thinking, this wasn't an altogether undesirable turn of events. He'd worried things might be awkward; he was usually all mouth when it came to people he worked with, and maybe occasionally hands-on (especially when it came to Cartwright's gorgeous bum), but he didn't usually make it a habit to shit where he lived. He liked to think he had _some_ standards of decorum, after all.

 

 

Which he promptly lost on or about the third day in a row he'd spent sicking up the contents of his gut before coming into work. He was rarely ever sick, as a rule, and when he was, it was never serious---so he always went in to work anyway. He figured it was fair trade for when he took off for the occasional footy match. 

 

 

The first day, no-one had really noticed. The second, Cartwright had remarked he was looking a little peaky, and Ray leered and made some comment about "give us a kiss and make it all better, Florence Nightingale," and Cartwright had rushed away hurriedly. 

 

 

And on the third, his humiliation was complete when he managed to drag himself into work only to have to rush off to the bogs not ten minutes after he'd walked through the door. He'd been in such a rush, he'd nearly knocked his DI through the wall as he'd crouched in front of him and retched miserably into the bowl between them. 

 

 

"Dry heaves? Those are the worst," Sam was genuinely sympathetic, for a moment forgetting the rather awkward position they were in.

 

 

Ray glared up at Sam, utterly miserable. Then paled. "You weren't...I'm not..." he nearly stuttered as his eyes lowered involuntarily. _Don't let him think you're looking..._ he thought. Which, of course, made his eyes disobey completely.

 

 

"Well, I'm not _now_. Not with your head in the way," Sam huffed. "But there's something I ought to tell you..."

 

 

"What can you possibly have to tell me now?" Ray glared some more, the full effect of which was considerably muted by another miserable bout of retching and heaving up nothing at all.

 

 

"How long would you say you've been sick like this?" Sam asked, suddenly peering at Ray's face very intently.

 

 

"Three days. Why?" Ray was too exhausted and demoralised to come up with an appropriately rude response.

 

 

"Could be morning sickness," Sam began, slowly, simultaneously bringing his hands down to protect his exposed bits as he straddled the back of the toilet and tried to back even further away from Ray. 

 

 

"In case you've somehow missed it, _I'm not a bird_ ," Ray glared. "And that's not funny."

 

 

"It's OK, Ray. Everyone will just think you've spent too much time down the boozer and your gut's expanding with jolly good cheer. Hey, by my calculations, you'll be able to volunteer as a bloody impressive Santa this year!" Sam beamed, excited at the prospect.

 

 

"Just think of all those good little girls and boys piling onto your lap and sicking up on your red velveteen coat! Of course, you'll always have at least _two_ good kids on you at all times. More, of course, if you're carrying twins. Or triplets. Or... _octuplets_!" Sam's eyes glassed over with completely unsuppressed mirth. 

 

 

"I adore kids. I bet you'd never have guessed. Oh, I'll be happy to watch them anytime you need to get out, Ray. You can count on me," Sam smiled, voice suffused with warmth.

 

 

Ray's head cracked nastily on the toilet as he passed out. And he managed to heave up again on the way down, so at least he had something other than hard tile to land on.


End file.
